


Lunchtime Referral

by scalphunter



Series: Teacher, Teacher! (or Yes Sir) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, OFC Student, Smutlet, Sorry Not Sorry, Teacher Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalphunter/pseuds/scalphunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote a very indulgent fic to satisfy my teacher!kink.</p><p>Academy teacher Bucky Barnes is on lunch detention duty and you've been referred ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunchtime Referral

**Author's Note:**

> For myself and my girls Maggie and Vis :) 
> 
> Plus all of you Bucky fangirls with a teacher kink. I wrote a very indulgent fic to satisfy my teacher!kink.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

You step into the office fearing the worst, Mr Barnes has a sharp temper and a tongue and he has these moods he gets in.

But he’s not sitting bored at his desk, he’s standing at the window, looking out onto the Art block. He’s humming something that sounds distractedly like _Black Sabbath_.

‘Do you not know how to knock on a door? Bad enough I have to take you lot for lunchtime detention because Fury ordered me too when I could be in the teacher’s lounge’ he turns to look at you. You try to smile politely, shyly. ‘Sit down’ he says levelly.

You pull the seat out from under the slightly crooked desk and sit down on the chair. Mr Barnes is more attractive than most (all) teachers. He’s young for a start. He’s sort of pretty with an edge of roughness and although you’re sure the teacher’s dress code is strict, he has a habit of pushing his fitted blazer sleeves up to his elbows – like they are now – and his dark brown hair tends toward fluffy, wispy and wayward not professional. You glance at the manicured nails on your hand and when your eyes flick up you expect him to be reading your report. His eyes, however, are focusing on the cleavage he can clearly see: that’s what happens to girls uniforms at this place as soon as the bell goes. As he sits down, he’s still staring, either unaware that you’ve noticed or not giving a damn. It thrills you, because Mr Barnes (James or… Bucky? But you’re not supposed to know that) has got all girls over the age of 13 at the academy going red and turning innocents into fevered fantasists. It’s the Head’s fault – or Deputy Head Coulson – or whoever hired him. However, that’s one way of ensuring attendance. You’re there because of something that wasn’t even your fault so you might as well make some attempt to get out of it.

Once he’s sitting on his side of the desk, you pick a pen up from the desk and begin to tap it in a lazy drum beat, twirling it in your fingers occasionally. That’s when you drop the pen, both of you watch it roll slowly across the desk towards him. You stand up from the chair and look into his brown-green eyes as you bend across the table to reach the errant pen.

You look up once again and he’s staring back at you. He clears his throat, narrows his eyes and instructs you to sit back down.

Actually, looks incredibly pissed off with you. Maybe, you’ve just made it worse. Mr Barnes picks up the referral from the teacher who’s landed you here (Mr Rogers – whoops). As he scans it he shuffles in his seat looking incredibly uncomfortable, slouching back a little.

‘…talking in class, talking back, dirty language…dirty’ he lingers over the repeated word a second time, ‘That’s all it says. Mr Rogers’ class? What the hell did you do!?’

You begin to explain you were making a joke, that Mr Rogers overheard it and got a bit offended. He stares at you, hard hooded eyes, completely distracted until you bring him back to the plot with your next words.

‘It’s really not my fault though, sir. I’m just a bit…dirty’ you tilt your head coquettishly, an air of sweetness. You lick your lips and he almost, _almost_ mimics the move. Instead he swallows and puts down the paper.

‘Well, I don’t want to be too harsh on you since it might not even be your fault. Just a misunderstanding. Mr Rogers is extremely rule abiding, you should know that’ you can’t help but feel a tad disappointed, and almost as if he had registers this he stands up, his chair scrolling across the hardwood floor. He pouts a little bit in a painfully sarcastic manner and _bloody hell he’s got a nice mouth_ , you think. ‘Although…I suppose if you were dirty, you should be punished properly’

He walks – swaggers – around towards you and you watch him, following his movements, the command of his hips and thighs hungrily, your breath hitching as he comes closer to you. He towers over you at your side of the desk and at 6ft it’s an intimidating stature. You look down, suddenly nervous, and he swiftly puts a hand on your chin and pulls your head up. Smoothly, he bends down, a move you misconstrue as him moving to kiss you. He ignores the slight pucker in your lips and presses his own against your ear for a moment.

‘Nah. No, that’s hardly punishment is it?’ and an old fashioned Brooklyn drawl swirls around his words. ‘I’m far too good for it to be considered anything but praise for your dirty, slutty behaviour, sweetheart’ he annunciates the last four words so slowly and harshly that you wince, pressing your thighs tightly together.

He notices this miniscule, and what you had hoped, subtle action, as he places a hand on your thigh, much higher up than is perfectly acceptable for teacher’s, and pushes them apart with his thumb and a twitch of the tips of his fingers. He slides his hand further up, just reaching the fabric of your navy skirt, and he squeezes his palm.

‘Stand up’ removes his hand, allowing you to move. There are red imprints of his fingers on your pale skin, a stark contrast to the dark grey of your socks that start just below. Once standing, and barely at the height of his chest, he looks you up and down with quite a blasé look, but once he reaches your eyes again he smiles that arrogant, cocky grin you’ve seen so many times before and nods to the desk with his head, hands in his pants pockets.

Before you even fully understand what he means he tells you to bend over.

You do as you’re told, arms on the desk, and he hovers behind you for a while, at some point making a small noise of appreciation, you feel his presence slowly coming closer behind you till one of his hands is on your hip, the other in your hair, yanking mildly. He moves closer to you, his crotch presses against you so you can feel his obvious arousal. The slender hand in your hair loosens and travels down your back and round to your thigh, his coarse palm (he has arms training and regularly goes to a gun range) slips up and pushes the fabric of your skirt out of the way. He dips two fingers into the side of your black underwear – you’re wearing the one with the red star on the front - and snap them back. The shock distracts you but suddenly his hand smacks against your bare ass and you yelp. He soothes his hand over the area he just struck, gently. He lifts his hand once again and brings it down, softer this time. He thinks he hurt you the first time more so than you could take. When he slaps the third time, softer yet again, you decide to speak up.

‘Tyazheleye…Harder’ is all you could manage, and it’s breathy and wanting. He laughs, close, and you don’t need to see the smirk to know it’s there.

‘Nice Russian’ he compliments, ‘and that’s not up for you to say doll-face, you are dirty, aren’t you?’

He grabs your hips and flips you around so you’re lying on the desk, legs spread, and him between them. He pulled at your skirt, moving it up your waist and leaning down over you. His breath is hot and wet in your ear, leaving you no other option but to bite down forcefully on your lower lip.

You can taste the slipperiness of blood and he draws away from you, scans your face and rests on your mouth. He licks slowly at the droplet that trickles down your lip and you whimper, your hands curl onto the edge of the desk.

His hands trail up your abdomen, curve around the edge of your breasts, moving to the buttons of your uniform shirt. It only takes a few popped buttons, until there are only two left at the bottom, causing you to breathe in heavily. You want to bring him closer, lock him inside the v of your legs and have him never leave. You want to see him all of him. But you aren't allowed. That's not what this is. He flicks a thumb across your nipples that are covered in a soft mock-lacy purple bra. He ducks, licks a stripe up your chest, and you knock the heels of your shiny black brogues on the hollow of desk’s low side on reflex. He draws back, smirking darkly, his hands runs up your inner bare thighs, thumb caresses just below the line of your underwear. Then he’s rubbing at your clit through your panties, and your arch your hips with a broken gasp.

‘Sir…’

‘Vy mozhete konchit' tak zhe, kak eto, ne tak li?’ he whispers in aggressive Russian. Your eyelids droop at it, and the molten surge at the base of your spine flares up. _‘_ _You can come just like this, can't you?’_

He brings you to a fast climax, you’re breathing deeply on the oak desk, chest heaving and flushed. He’s too dressed compared to you and you moan shakily. The other hand pulls carelessly at the band of your panties, the pads of his fingers skimming along the top, like he wants to feel but _won’t_. He flicks his tongue over his wet red mouth and you could feel yourself coming more. The vibrations pulsate through your body, leaving you weak and pliant, and you let out a soft groan.

He drags your panties down over your legs and returns his hands to your hips in a tight grip. He kisses you hard and impatiently with recklessness, his hands twisting in your hair. You sit up, your own hands flounder for a moment before settling one on his arm, feeling the firm trained muscle under the corduroy. You reach for his belt, and he stills, frozen, says ‘Not a chance, darlin’’ and shoves you back down, kissing you again and nipping at your lips. You can only assume he’s undone the leather and everything himself as he braces, hands at your hip and leans in to your ear, speaking through deep, snarky laughter.

‘Sorry’ and he shifts to stare at you, smiling crookedly, and so flaming charmingly, as he thrusts into you biting down on the inside of his cheek, the action accentuating the hard line of his jaw. He hauls your hips towards him, filling you, the slick echoing around the room as he pushes on, harder and faster. It’s not sweet or kind it’s un-adulterated lust.

It doesn’t take long, with you clenching and meeting his thrusts, before his nails are digging into your hips. He moans lowly into the crook of your neck and you tug at the material of his jacket, your body shuddering under him at the wet heat as he comes.

‘Fuck’ he lets that linger in the air for a moment, ‘that was meant to go kind of differently’.

You don’t know whether he means the entire ordeal or the fact that he fucked you unprotected but you don’t care. For a time, the only sounds in the room are both of your uneven breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like leave kudos/comments :) ❤


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